“He who has not visited Sicily does not know Italy” said the great German, poet, naturalist, novelist, dramatist and general universal man, Goethe.

Following his advice, just after Christmas of 2011 we took a flight from Pisa to Palermo on the three-cornered Island. We’d previously visited Sicily on separate occasions but never together. Sandra had been to Erice as interpreter for a professional visit. I had first seen Sicily in the early sixties when my Uncle was university lecturer in French literature at the University of Catania. It was an invitation from the guardian of Vicopisano fortress, Giovanni Ranieri Fascetti, to visit his friends’ family in Syracuse for the New Year that prompted us to revisit the island .

We hired a car from Palermo airport and had a breakfast by the beautiful seacoast known as the ‘Conca Doro’ (the golden bay) before deciding to follow the road up Monte Pellegrino to the sanctuary of the city’s patroness, Santa Rosalia.

She was a twelfth century woman, born in an aristocratic family who, forsaking marriage and a courtly life, decided to become a hermit and spent the rest of her life as an anchorite in a cave on the hill which dominates Palermo to the west.

In the seventeenth century Rosalia’s remains were rediscovered and paraded through the city’s streets during a pandemic. Miraculously her presence wiped away the plague that was decimating the population. From that moment on Saint Rosalia’s shrine has become a popular place of pilgrimage attracting people from all over the world.

Among these was the great Goethe himself who, on setting eyes on the sweet effigy of the Saint in the grotto over which the sanctuary has been built, wrote in a letter home:

By the light of some dull lamps I caught sight of a lovely female form. She lay seemingly in a state of ecstasy—the eyes half-closed, the head leaning carelessly on her right hand, which was adorned with many rings. I could not sufficiently discern her face, but it seemed to be peculiarly charming. Her robe was made of gilded metal, which imitated excellently a texture wrought with gold. The head and hands were of white marble. I cannot say that the whole was in the lofty style, still it was executed so naturally and so pleasingly that one almost fancied it must breathe and move. A little angel stands near her, and with a bunch of lilies in his hand appears to be fanning her.

I don’t think I could have put this description any better – especially as it came from Goethe!

We left the shrine and began our descent down Monte Pellegrino. The wondrous city of Palermo lay spread out before us, its treasures waiting for our discovery of them.